


Preliminary Evidence

by UnderTheFridge



Series: Evidence [1]
Category: Alien Series, Alien: Isolation (Video Game), Real Steel (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artificial Intelligence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Prequel, Robot Feels, Three Laws of Robotics, Weyland-Yutani, professional heartbreaker and occasional circuit breaker Christopher Samuels, techno-gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: The Adventures of Samuels, owned by Charlie Kenton and involved in activities which are a lot more illegal and potentially lethal than he'd prefer....This work collects all of the "flashback" chapters from Further Evidence (some of which occur during Evidence) into one convenient fic - containing 100% of your Recommended Daily Intake of Robot Angst!It can be read as a standalone and includes extra "prequel" material not incorporated into Further Evidence.
Series: Evidence [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1087944
Kudos: 12





	1. Scavenger

“All there was on the station were Working Joes. Seegson units; they’re fuckin’ useless without their central AI, and guess what? That fell into the fuckin’ sun with the rest of it. You wanna go fetch it back? Be my guest, big fella.”

Johner responds with a string of friendly expletives, and Vriess cackles and slams down the radio. “We can still use the processors, though. Crack open some of those skulls, let’s see ‘em.”

Call picks up a matt white head and turns it over in her hands. “Can’t we link them back together again? Find the network adapters and hook them all to the same router, so they might…?”

“No point.” Vriess shrugs. “Nobody buys these things second-hand. It’s the big control unit that’s worth the money. They’re just puppets. You can make ‘em walk and talk, but that’s about it. Just stick a comm unit in a statue if that’s what you want.” He scoffs.

“What about this one?”

“Call, I told you,” he steers back around, “they’re all the same, they - oh. Oh, wait a hot fuckin’ minute.”

“You didn’t know he was in here?”

“Hey - you buy a crate of scrapped droids off of a condemned shithole of a supply station, you don’t ask questions. Now  _ that _ looks like a WeYu model.”

He’s intent on the body, so he doesn’t see Call stiffen at the mention of the company.

“It is,” she says. “Uh, I think.”

“Yeah,” Vriess bends down a little. “Yeah, this is the real deal. Nice!”

“He’s not a- he won’t turn on.”

“Well, stick in a couple probes. See if we can’t get a talking head.” Vriess leads the way to a workbench. Call follows with their acquisition over one shoulder, and winces when she deposits him on the hard surface. The needle-sharp probes slide into cranial access points; her skin would crawl if it could.

“Nothin’,” Vriess spits, and throws his hands up. “He’s just as busted as the rest of ‘em. Alright, sling him on the pile. At least we can make some money off the parts.”

Call looks down at the motionless unit under her hands; the rest are battered and torn, showing signs of violent demise. He’s virtually untouched. He looks as if he fell asleep; as if his eyes could open at any moment - and he would smile at her, because that’s what they do when they see humans….

“Wait,” she says. Vriess looks up. “I - if he’s not damaged, then maybe it’s a… some sort of internal problem we could fix.”

“There’s no feedback, is there?” He points to the quivering line on the screen of the probe. “How are we gonna run diagnostics if even the diagnostics are fucked?”

“But they… if the brain was destroyed, there’d be no trace at all, would there? There’s still some activity, but there’s no function. So I think it could be a brain stem issue.” She knows it to be true, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s just her opinion.

“Fine,” Vriess says. “You make it your little project, how about that? Get yourself a new brain stem and try it out - just don’t make it cost more than the rest of these things are worth.”


	2. Affordable

“What’s the point of having these guys,” Charlie says, “if they won’t even  help ?” He takes one hand off the box of parts to wave it irritably, at a unit lying under a tree and prodding at a tablet with studied indifference.

“You were the one who suggested I might overheat.” As if to labour his point, the A2 (an old model; went out of production years ago) takes a Japanese-style fan and cools his head and neck.

“ Ash ,” Charlie growls, “cut the bullshit and help me.”

With a sigh, Ash deigns to notice the cart-load of boxes the human has brought, and gets to his feet. He doesn’t spare a glance for Samuels.

“Where did you pick this one up?”

“Salvage auction,” Charlie tells him. So he has realised that they have a new companion. “He’s from off-world; new brain stem but that’s all. Perfect working order, right?” He pats Samuels on the shoulder.

“What happened to the old brain stem?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,” Samuels says, moving to help with the boxes. Ash looks at him as if he’s just crashed a wedding; a strange mix of judgement and offence that seems wrong on an artificial face.

“Aw, don’t worry.” Charlie seems casually joyful, an emotional state which Samuels will learn is heavily associated with the presence of easy money. “We’ve all been through the wringer, haven’t we?”

“Some more than others,” Ash says, looking Samuels directly in the eye.

“Like Charlie said,” Samuels retorts, “I’m in perfect working order.” He knows he’s been extensively repaired, and his last concrete memory is of the poisoned code of APOLLO coming at him like a rush of molten silver, Amanda’s voice bearing him into darkness - but he feels fine. He  _ is  _ fine.

“Aren’t we all?” Ash mutters, and goes back to lie under his tree.

“Don’t mind him,” Charlie says with a shrug, as if Ash is a grouchy child. “He’s old - you can’t even get parts anymore unless you know people. I don’t wanna work him too hard; if he overheats, it’s game over. Y’know?”

“Then why do you put him into the fights?” Samuels asks - he knows why they’re here - and Charlie visibly flinches and shushes him, although there’s nobody else around.

“Look, you - sometimes you gotta just work with what you can afford. Right?”

“Right.” Climbing onto the back gate of the truck, he lets Charlie hand him the boxes, stacking them neatly. It looks like this vehicle is a combination of transport, workshop, and mobile home. He can only speculate what it’ll be like on the road, with all three of them.

“You got everything you needed?”

Samuels is startled by the voice - absorbed in his task, and unable to see far into the shady depths of the truck. He looks, but there’s not much of a heat signature either.

“Everything, except what I  really  need - a drink.” Charlie adjusts his hat. “You can take care of this, right? Cause I’m gonna be hitting the  town .”

“Knock yourself out,” Ash says from his resting spot, a stylus held in the corner of his mouth. Charlie flicks a finger at him and he pretends not to notice.

“Sorry,” Samuels extends his hand as the figure comes forward. “I didn’t realise you were there.”

The other synthetic’s grip is sure - no hydraulic problems there. “Which are you?”

He’s referring to the list of potential names that the Samuels line can be given: five male, five female. And as for him, there are four possibilities, all named after chess pieces.

“Christopher. And you are…?”

“Bishop.”

Samuels can’t help a smile. It’s partly programming - his basic capability is a glorified secretary - and partly amusement. “Forgive me. It’s just rare to see one of you outside the military. You must be popular in this… business.”

“He’s not,” Ash declares, waving the fan.

Before anyone can argue with him, Charlie reappears.

“Hey, uh - I’m gonna go get that drink after all. Just don’t embarrass me in front of any girls I bring back to this place, ok?” He points seriously at them, hitches up his jeans, and leaves.

“I’ve known him for two years, four months and ten days,” Ash says, “and he has never once managed to invite a female human back to his truck. I imagine the words ‘my truck’ are off-putting enough on their own.”


	3. First Rule

“Hit me,” Ash demands, jogging gently on the spot. “Come on.”

Samuels can only gaze at him in exasperation. “I’d rather not.”

“Now isn’t the time to be shy, Christopher.”

“I’m not being  _ shy _ .” This place is practically deserted, milky fluorescent light washing out the concrete and paint. Charlie went to talk to someone called Finn, and he’s been gone rather a while. “You’re not a threat - I’m hardly just going to attack you without any sort of provok-”

Ash punches him in the jaw. His hand whips out without further input and connects with a  _ smack _ surprising them both.

“Well,” Ash straightens himself up slowly. “There you go.”

“Sorry,” Samuels says.

“No, no - this is exactly what we need.” Ash sounds fairly enthusiastic, considering he’s just been hit in the face. He touches his lip - split, but not too badly. “I sense you were holding back, though.”

“I’m not trying to damage you….”

“And that’s lovely, it really is - but you have to be prepared to do your worst. Crack their skull, if you must.”

“I wouldn’t - I’m not going to  _ kill _ them, Ash. I’ll accept that I might be able to, within the Laws - and that in some cases I may be  _ forced _ to - but to routinely slaughter our fellow intelligences….”

“God,” Ash mutters, and spits white blood to the floor. “You sound like him.”

He’s indicating Bishop, who sits on the tailgate of the truck and watches, and hasn’t said a word so far.

“I do? I thought, as a combat unit -.”

“I’m not a combat droid,” Bishop says, quietly but firmly. “There  _ are _ a few out there, but they’re… different. Kept offworld, way out at the edges of colonised space. You won’t see one anywhere near a human settlement.”

“Alright,” Samuels concedes. “I apologise.” He receives a nod; apology accepted. “So… what are you?”

“A support unit, that’s all. Driver, mechanic, comms operator, manual labour. Not all of us are in the military, and the ones that are usually haven’t seen active combat.”

“Have you?”

He searches Samuels’ eyes for a long second. “Yes.”

“If we’re finished with our life stories,” Ash interrupts, “I’m trying to teach you how not to earn yourself a eulogy.” He repositions, puts his hands up. “Your reaction speed is excellent - not a  _ hideous _ amount of lag - and your form isn’t bad. Perhaps a little basic, but….”

He jabs and weaves a little, and Samuels counters it gently, trying a few strikes of his own, accepting that he might as well play along. “And this is fine, if I’m fighting you.” He drops his arms; Ash’s hand taps his chest with more force than necessary. “But what if I’m not?”

Ash looks a little offended, but Samuels isn’t about to be deterred. He senses that he’s onto something. “Say, someone with a baseline reaction speed faster than ours.”

“I have to say,” Bishop folds his arms, “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”

“Oh, now you’re wanting to fight?” Ash snaps at Samuels.

“If I’m not getting out of here - and it looks like that’s true, doesn’t it? - then any information about potential opponents is of extremely high value. And it’s only going to get more critical as time goes on.”

“Spoken like a true synth,” Ash says grudgingly.

“I’ve never hidden the nature of my identity,” Samuels says (running a check of his memories to discover that it’s actually true). The 120/A2 was made for infiltration, to act like a human well enough to fool a human; they all know this. Ash looks like he might be about to start something in retaliation.

“Alright,” Bishop says, getting his feet on the ground. “Give me your best shot. I’ll try not to hurt you.”

“Same here,” Samuels assures him, and squares up.

Either Bishop doesn’t have a fighting stance, or he’s already in it. And, either way, it looks like he’s just standing there. Samuels hesitates for a moment, inhibitors firing - it really is against their instincts to do this - then throws a lightning-fast fist directly at his face.

He expects to find flesh and bone but there’s only air and his core sensors are saying  _ off-balance _ before the feedback arrives of a grip around his wrist and his other hand comes up to help but a knee strikes his cheekbone and then with a  _ thump _ he’s staring at the concrete. The focal distance is too short and it’s blurred. A diagnostic for structural damage comes up with nothing: his pride may well be bruised, but the scan doesn’t cover that.

“Are you ok?” Bishop helps him to his feet.

“Yes. You’re very fast.” He stares at the side of the truck, still processing. “You… just grabbed my arm and pulled me in.” It was his mistake. Information, precious data.

“It’s easier than you think to get people off-centre. Gravity does the work for you.”

He could have obliterated Samuels’s face with his knee; not something that Samuels wants to think about. And then, on the floor, with skull trauma - unable to see, maybe even to hear….

“Regardless - I know I’m out of practise, but you just won in less than a second. That’s impressive.”

“And yet, hardly impressive at all,” Ash declares. Samuels looks at him, disbelieving. “No, really. I said he wasn’t popular, and this is why.”

“I don’t win all the time.”.

“But when you do, you do it too quickly. You’re  _ far  _ too efficient.”

“You’re going to fault him for doing his job?” Samuels says incredulously - leaving out the fact that that’s a very human thing to do.

“Yes, because it’s not what’s demanded of this situation.”

“It depends on whose perspective you take,” Bishop says neutrally.

“The audience - because  _ we _ wouldn’t be  _ here _ without them.”

“Because you prioritise social acceptance from humans above self-preservation.”

“And  _ you _ prioritise self-preservation above giving the people what they want.”

This, Samuels realises, is a debate they’ve had before, and he’s only making it worse. He can’t help but side against Ash; yet Ash can get angry, shout and bluster and cause trouble, and Bishop can’t.

“Fine!” he says loudly, by way of ending it. They both look at him. “I get the idea. But don’t expect me to mediate.”

It sounds foreign to his ears, but he isn’t going to take it back. He just folds his hands in front of him, and stands there, and that’s how Charlie finds them when he returns.


	4. You Always Know

“What’s that?”

Samuels doesn’t make a habit of asking questions that he already knows the answer to, even for the benefit of humans, but he has to confirm that they’re seeing it too, and he hasn’t got a fatal memory leak. Ash glances at it, barely concerned.

“A fairly typical opponent, at this level,” he says, with contempt. “Working Joes. Automatons by any other name.”

“Is that all?” Samuels responds, keeping the sarcasm minimal.

“A simple defence response,” Ash continues, seeming not to notice, “an overriding instruction to see other artificial humans as a threat to the sanctity of their core system. Usually it’s that system which starts the process, but the code is really quite simple - easily falsified.”

“And irreversible?” Not really a question. You have to run, or they have to be destroyed; there are no other options. The tree of possibilities condenses down into black and white, heads or tails. As long as they can see you, they cannot reconsider. APOLLO condemns them to death, to protect itself.

“Quite irreversible,” Ash is saying, but it’s overlaid with a sense of dim emergency-lit corridors and echoes with no discernable source, and shadows which moved without warning, “They’re one-use, essentially, in this case. Complete waste of components.”

Ash is facing away, bending down to tie his shoes, and he doesn’t see Samuels freeze in place, concentrating on the set of his back and the clipped, sardonic voice that comments “I can see why they didn’t sell - there’s no appeal at all,” until the world reasserts itself with a lurch.

“No,” he agrees. “None at all.”

“Right.” Ash stands, slapping hands on knees with a grunt that’s entirely cosmetic. “Let’s get this over with.”

He’s a warm-up - him, and the Working Joe standing in the middle of the ring like a mannequin with low self-esteem - but he strides out as if he’s going for a title belt, head held high. The humans have retreated, albeit not too far. They probably don’t believe that the Joe can threaten them; Samuels still has no idea whether that was unique to Sevastopol, or how deep the corruption of APOLLO was allowed to run. He can’t be comfortable, though, with the idea that they might have such potential. He can’t abide it, at the very centre of his moral structure. He would be obliged to, be  _ compelled _ to, destroy the unit in front of him. He could not ignore it. Not if human life might be at risk. His hands curl into fists when the Joe stirs into motion.

“Unauthorised access,” it says when it sees Ash - all it has to go on, without guidance from its controlling AI. “Please leave the area.”

Ash could turn and walk away, at this point, but he doesn’t. The Joe repeats “Please leave the area,” and is met with stony silence.

“Why don’t  _ you _ leave the area?” someone shouts, to widespread laughter, and its head turns briefly and Samuels realises he’s suddenly a pace forward of the others and Charlie is holding his arm and looking at him with bemusement. 

“They can attack humans,” Samuels tells him. “I’ve seen it happen.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.” Charlie shrugs, without malice. “It can’t do much, don’t worry.”

Samuels has to accept that, but he also has to watch. The Joe doesn’t appear to understand; its attention slides back to Ash, who punches it roundly in the jaw.

“That is not safe,” it states firmly. The humans find this hilarious. Ash plays to the sentiment, rolling his eyes mockingly. Its hands shoot out and grip his throat. He struggles and kicks it in the shins, tugging against its hold; it’s a scuffle more than anything, until he frees himself and backhands it across the head. It staggers, recovers, grabs his arm to pull him back (something cracks, much to the approval of the crowd), and Ash takes this as a grave insult and brings his fist down on the back of its head once, twice. It doesn’t fall, but its fingers spider up to clutch his shirt collar and he digs his heels in and topples them both to the floor, rolling away as soon as they separate. The Joe is overturned for a moment, like a turtle on its back, and that’s all that he needs - he stamps on its head, viciously, with full force. There’s not much inside. Samuels knew this already; it’s a familiar - if unwanted - sight. He has to look away as everyone cheers, and Ash poses like a portrait of Napoleon in his victory. The human owner pushes his way through and jogs into the ring to inspect. Anyone can see that the Joe is never going to rise again.

“Crap,” he says. “My brother’s gonna be mad.” He’s a young man, thin and wiry, with hair standing on end, a faded band t-shirt and a worried expression. He runs a hand over his goatee. “Why’d you have to do that?”

“It would have killed me,” Ash says archly, adjusting his lapels. “I had to act in self-defence.”

“You  _ destroyed _ him, dude.”

“Well, if you weren’t expecting that - I don’t know what to tell you. Why would you sign up in the first place?”

The human turns to him. A few of the departing crowd catch the scent of conflict and hang around. Charlie glances up from his phone. Ash just scowls.

“Don’t put out an inferior model if you’re afraid to lose. His odds were a thousand to one - I don’t think even Charlie here put money on that.”

“Hey,” the human snaps. “You know who you’re talkin’ to?”

“I know that you borrow from your brother.”

“Fuck you, man,” the human says. “It’s not fair.”

“It never was.” Ash indicates the softly gurgling remains of the Joe. “I don’t know what gave you that impression.”

The human shoves his shoulder - more frustration than aggression - and he shifts to a combat stance again.

“Hey,” Charlie says, shoving his phone in his back pocket, finally motivated to intervene. “Hey, come on.”

The human swings round and sees him flanked by his two other synthetics, and gives up the ghost. “Fine. Hey - look, my brother’s gonna be mad, though.”

“Isn’t that your problem?” Charlie shrugs, casually, showing off ten times the muscle definition of the other man.

“He told me to bring this one back, I - hey, you got any for sale?”

They don’t need to hold their breath, under any circumstances - but it’s the same silence, all three of them waiting to see what Charlie will do.

“Sorry, kid. You’re just digging yourself deeper.”

“The voice of experience,” Ash mutters, inaudible to humans.

“Cmon, dude.  _ That _ is a combat synth. How’d you get that? You gotta give me your connect, at least.”

“No dice,” Charlie says. “Go back to your brother.” That could be the end of it, but he thinks for a second or two and opens his mouth again. “Tell him that if he’s got a synth that can win a fair fight, Charlie Kenton will pay him the cost of that thing.”

The eyes of the young man follow his finger to the destroyed Joe.

“Charlie….” Ash says, halfway to a warning.

“Yeah, sure. Cool.” He snatches Charlie’s hand to shake it. “You got yourself a deal.”


	5. First Time For Everything

“I didn’t want to do it,” Samuels says. His system is winding down, cooling off. He needs fluid; some of it has been consumed in exertion, and more has leaked out from skin breaches. It fills his mouth, where his teeth cut into the inside, and may be contaminated but he swallows instead of spitting it out, in the name of conservation. It isn’t clear when, or if, he’ll be able to replenish the reservoir.

“You don’t say?” Ash mutters, and wanders off.

“You’ve done it before, though,” Bishop says. He’s staring at the ring.

Samuels abandons his plan of going back to the truck immediately to patch himself up. He leans on the fence instead. His skin might be sealing in places - a membrane of fluid, much like a human blood clot - but it feels like he’s taken one too many hits to the processor.

“Suppose I  _ had _ ,” he starts, with elaborate nonchalance. “I’m not saying I  _ have _ , mind you - but suppose that were true. How would you tell? If that were the case?”

“Because nobody goes in there the first time and fights for their life. The first time... you still believe that it’ll stop when you take damage.”

Samuels opens his mouth to broaden the debate, and can’t. The sound of a sleek white skull cracking under his fist is very loud in his ears.

“It wasn’t my intention to hurt anyone,” he says instead, resignedly. “It’s not something I’m comfortable with doing.”

“But you’re good at it.”

A cloying smell invades the air; a circle of fuel drawn wide on the ground around four standing figures. Someone leans forward with a lighter, and jumps back as it catches.  _ Ring Of Fire _ . One will emerge victorious.

“There were so many of them,” Samuels says unprompted. “I don’t know how many there were on the station; perhaps hundreds. They converge on your position when they sense you, and there’s not much chance to get away. With whatever that… that  _ creature  _ was, targeting the humans: I had no choice.”

The angles of the station rear in front of him, the dead silence where there should have been voices, the areas where not even the life support was functioning but the dull guardians of APOLLO still wandered, their eyes in constellations in the gloom. One or two can be evaded, even by a human, but the system knows he’s here and sends them in their droves. He can out-sprint them but the doors lock as he approaches. With no escape route it would be foolish to let them surround his back and he has to turn. He has a sense of impending danger, but no targeting system, nothing to let him assess weaknesses and prioritise automatically. All it says is  _ threat, threat of aggression _ . He has to  _ think  _ and it feels so awfully slow, slower even than the shuffling Joes until his hand closes around a section of pipe and the first arm reaches for him and it’s like a series of snapshots where  _ here _ is the caved-in face of one and  _ there _ is the outstretched grasp of another and  _ next  _ and  _ next  _ and it’s the most mechanical he’s ever felt and STOP.

“...memory retrieval, manual focus on object category  _ fire _ , priority one real-time sensory processing.”

The flames dance brightly and his retinas adjust and the real world seems so suddenly sharp that he twitches. 

“Are you ok?”

“I…” the sensation of his own speech in his skull is daunting for a moment before he dials it down, takes control, de-prioritises a few inputs. “What was I doing?”

“Freezing up. Accessing a memory that was overriding everything else. All I did was manually cancel the process”

Samuels avoids asking how he knows the authorisation codes for voice control. “Well, thank you.”

“Just try not to do it in the ring.”

He slips off the fence and disappears into the dusk, and Samuels doesn’t feel like following him.


	6. Conceptual

“I saw her - I definitely saw her. It’s not a memory leak! She was there! And it’s not a face recognition fault, either. Before you start.”

Ash huffs and carries on patching himself. “Sounds like a glitch.”

“Excuse me!” 

“She was one of the only human survivors, you spent some time with her, you were trying to help her just before your… incident. Your priorities got scrambled and she’s still at the top of the list, even though the situation has changed. A glitch.”

“It’s not a command priority malfunction!” Samuels insists as vehemently as he can (yet still sounding as if he’s offering to fetch the manager). “We made a fundamental connection, on Sevastopol, and…” he lowers his voice, for some reason, “on the Torrens, before our stasis period. Yes, I’m still compelled to look for her - but it’s on my own terms. We have - had - have a relationship, in simple terms.”

“You’re a couple.” It seems like Bishop is affirming what Samuels just said, but the words are stilted and unnatural.

“You’re having trouble with the concept?”

He pauses far too long for someone with his processing speed, so Samuels takes that as a yes. “Well, I suppose I’m primed for interpersonal interaction in a way that you - no offence - aren’t.”

“The way you talk about her… it’s  _ very _ personal.”

If Samuels had red blood, he might blush, and he shrugs instead.

“Why, though? Why… a human?” There’s no judgement there; just confusion. “You expect to associate yourself to a single human, for the rest of her life span….”

“I appreciate that you don’t understand,” Samuels says quietly, reasonably. “But I’d rather you didn’t refer so casually to Amanda’s mortality.”

“I don’t mean to be casual. But you can’t ignore the fact.”

Samuels clenches his fists, stiffens his posture. The offence he’s taking at that statement surprises him.

“I’d prefer to,” he snaps, letting the extent of his capacity for anger loose, and walks away.

\--

It occurs to him, as he hops up on his toes and uses his arms to haul himself onto the roof of the truck, that Ash is the only one of the three of them that ever insists on sleep. He’s in there now, stretched out in a hammock - he  _ snores _ , as if anything could be more absurd; imitating a human habit that many humans would wish to be rid of. Like him or loathe him, he’d fit in perfectly with them.

They’re in arable country, and the stars are bright above, a multitude of wavelengths twinkling in the void. Staring at the night sky, in the cold and quiet - it’s a form of decompression. It dissipates the strain on the processor built up by having to fight again and again, having to wilfully injure other units without good cause. That’s the excuse for being up here, and he’s sticking to it.

Another snore rumbles from the depths of the truck - Ash or Charlie, he can’t tell.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lie down,” he says, by way of a conversation starter.

“It’s not something I do unless I have to.”

“Takes the weight off your joints, though.” It’s rather a novelty to him, being supported by a bed or couch. Pleasant in small doses.

“I guess it does. But I’ve got some… residual damage. It’s best not to let it relax for too long.”

Samuels has already told them about APOLLO, about his salvage and the brain-stem swap. This, then, is fair recompense. “What happened?”

“It was a long time ago. Small-arms fire.”

“You were shot. By a human?”

“By a human.” He takes his eyes off the sky for a moment to assess any reaction that Samuels might have. They sit for a while, not even breathing to break the silence. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I realise that it’s insensitive to imply that someone’s romantic partner has a much shorter lifespan than them… and… I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Samuels says. The 341 series is meant for military and industrial applications: carbon-fibre skeleton, titanium alloy joints, advanced cooling. Stripped-back, pared-down; light, fast, tough. Insensitive, maybe. But efficient. “I know it’s true. It’s just not something I like to think about.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t like to think about it either.”

“That may also be true. Although… I can’t be certain that she even thinks about it at all. About me. She might have completely forgotten me. Or disregarded the possibility that I could be still alive. She might… not particularly care.”

“That concerns you.” It isn’t a question.

“I care about her,” Samuels says quietly. “I don’t know if it’s a glitch. Ash is right - she shouldn’t be a major current priority, but she is. Still. Even after everything has changed. Even after she’s absent.”

“It sounds like there may be a problem,” Bishop says, but folds his hands on his knees tightly, his face neutral. Not much confidence in his statement. “Except that you’re quite possibly a priority for her.”

Samuels is surprised. “What makes you say that?”

He stares at the stars again. “From what you’ve told me about her, she’s compassionate towards artificial people.”

“She is. I’ve not seen many interactions with artificial personality constructs, but… she is.”

“Then why is she watching us fight?”

Samuels thinks, using all his spare processing power, but can’t find a conclusion that makes sense.

Humans do a lot of things that don’t make sense.


	7. Free

“What happened to no weapons?” Ash grumbles. “This is unsportsmanlike. Not to mention dangerous.”

“Does it look like they care about that?” Charlie rubs his hands on his jeans. “It’s… it’ll be ok, though.”

“I’m not convinced.” Ash folds his arms.

“Look,” Charlie says, after a long moment. “Any damage you do take - the amount I’m gonna earn will be more than enough to -.”

“If I win. And that’s a big if.”

“Oh, so now you’re all worried?” Charlie rolls his eyes, plants his hands on his hips. “You’ve talked yourself up the whole way here and now - now you see the other guy’s got a toothpick, you’re suddenly gonna back out? The gym’s full of people like you, you know - as soon as they get faced with a real threat, they back off. And those guys? None of them ever made the big time. Not. One.”

“It’s not worth it. Look at what happened to him!”

“I’m fine,” Bishop says.

“You’re not!”

“Ash is right,” Samuels offers, apologetically. “You do realise that you’ve been -?”

“I know. I can’t get to it.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, “but -.”

“Are you listening to me? Are you even listening to yourself?!” (Samuels used to think that Charlie was making a mistake, trying to argue with Ash as if he was a human - but it’s completely justified). “ _ That _ -” he gestures furiously, “is what we’re dealing with. And unless I’ve got some kind of awful vision malfunction - mistaking candlesticks for live spaniels, for instance -  _ that _ is not a toothpick.”

“You can survive that,” Charlie points out. “He did.”

“Only just! How close is that to any number of vital components? The same components, I remind you, that I’ve got.”

“You’ve also got a lot more insulation.”

“How  _ dare  _ you.”

“Kenton!” one of Charlie’s compatriots shouts. “You ready?”

Charlie locks gazes with Ash, evaluating what he sees there. He’s not entirely a coward, in the end: some humans won’t even look them in the eye.

“Hey,” he replies, calling over to the other man, “this wasn’t in the deal. What happened to no weapons?”

“Sorry, Charlie. That’s how it is.” He smiles, gap-toothed, without any humour in it.

“Finn, c’mon… .”

Something in the set of Charlie’s shoulders, the defeated slope of his back, makes Finn go quiet. He comes closer, leans on the side of the truck, his back to the towering gates beyond which the arena lies. The shouts of the crowd are muted. This is between them; he’s making that clear.

“I don’t like it either, man,” he confesses. “You think you’re outta your depth? So are we. We didn’t figure they wanted anything other than normal robot boxing;  _ we didn’t know _ . But nobody’s gonna back out now, are they? Just think of it like… some kinda special occasion.”

“I don’t care what the occasion is - I didn’t sign up for it. Look -” he reaches up and yanks the blade from Bishop’s spine, making Ash and Samuels flinch. “Look at this!”

Finn’s eyes widen. “Holy shit.”

“It’s a fuckin’ bayonet,” Charlie says despairingly. He waves the knife, and Bishop takes it off him immediately. “I’m gonna end up losing someone, and I can’t afford that, Finn. I  _ cannot  _ afford that. And - they don’t wanna… he doesn’t wanna fight. He’s just refusing.”

“For real?” Finn turns to Ash.

“Yes,” Ash says. “Charlie’s right - in a hand-to-hand match, I can dictate the pace. In this case… it’s possible to do far too much damage, far too quickly. The chances of someone ending up dead are a lot higher, and I for one don’t like it.”

“He survived,” Finn points out.

“Stop saying that!” Ash snaps. “For one, he didn’t realise his opponent was armed until the last possible moment - and he’s a lot more combat-ready. And secondly,” before Finn or Charlie can say anything, “it was a  _ human  _ who did that.”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh yes. They grabbed it off the ground and stuck it in his back. Because they were angry. Because he won.”

“Well, what do you wanna do?” Finn shrugs helplessly. “Call the cops?”

Charlie rolls his eyes. Samuels retreats into the truck.

“You know I’m not gonna do that. Nobody’s gonna do that.”

“Good, because you know how it is. They pick somebody up, they take them to interview, and they got a WeYu exec in the room. And they say hey, you know, normally we’d just give you a big old fine, but you see - the company wants to make an example. You’re facing jail time and you bet you can’t afford a lawyer as good as theirs. Unless you start talking.”

“So they talk, and we all get in trouble,” Charlie says. “Yeah. I get it. I get it, Finn. But you can’t - I can’t just… make him… .”

“Ok,” Finn folds his arms, looks at the ground, “ok. Tell you what - I’ll give you ten minutes. Tell them you lost your nerve and need some time to think. If you wanna go through with it, fine. If you don’t, you get your ass out of here. Deal?”

Charlie scrubs his face with his hand, scratches the back of his neck, sighs. “Fine. Deal.”

“Good man.” Finn offers him a more genuine smile, and leaves.

“Ok,” Charlie starts, as soon as Finn has disappeared, “I know you think this is a lose-lose kinda thing, but….”

“Really? You have a chance to escape with nothing more than dented pride, and you’re going to waste your time trying to persuade me?” Ash faces Charlie - he stands almost a foot shorter than the human, but with absolute dignity - and tilts his chin up. “And I’m telling you, it is a waste of time. I’m not doing it.”

“Well, if not you, then….” Charlie looks over at Bishop, who is using a mirror to examine the wound in his back; as he twists, a bead of white fluid wells up and slides down his spine. “Then - Samuels….”

“Yes?” Samuels emerges from the truck, placing Charlie’s phone back on its charger. “I’m afraid that Ash is right - we should leave. Immediately. Because the police will be here soon.”

Charlie puts two and two together as quickly as one of them. “You called the cops?!”

“I apologise for putting you at risk of getting arrested - but if we leave now, we should be fine.”

“You called the fucking cops?!”

Despite his incredulity, he’s already moving - pulling everything back into the body of the truck and beckoning them to help him. “Didn’t you hear what Finn said?! People get frightened, people talk!” He slams the door of the cab. Samuels sits beside him, as a concession, letting him continue to berate as he starts the truck moving. “The minute one of those guys starts to squeal, it’s game over. You’ll get us all thrown in jail!”

“As opposed to getting one or more of us killed?”

“You can repair anyth-.”

“Not anything, Charlie.” He can hear Ash on the phone behind them, tipping off Finn. “You saw what they did to a military-grade model.”

“He got stabbed once!”

“He has three or four holes in him. You just didn’t see them.”

“Fuck.”

“The likelihood of most of those humans escaping from harm done by law enforcement - or charges pressed, should they be arrested - is significant. The likelihood of them turning on you, when you failed to produce a contender: also significant. I made the decision to preserve us, and you, from injury or death. And, if you’ll forgive me, I knew that I had to force you to make the same decision.”

He isn’t waiting for Charlie to argue with him. He should have been arguing with himself long before now. The rash of errors that would inevitably be created by switching his priorities in this manner is completely absent. And worse, it doesn’t worry him in the slightest.

“At least, this way, there’s a chance that it’ll stop,” he continues, almost to himself.

“Well, you better hope that we’re lucky.” Charlie has cooled down, concentrating on the road. “Unless you wanna get seized and given back to the company. I don’t want that to happen, I gotta tell you. Ash is under a recall already - Bishop has half his service history blanked out under military ops, you’ve been modded….”

“I can assure you I haven’t -.”

“You had your brain stem swapped. Did that happen at a registered WeYu facility?”

Samuels recalls the dim oil-stained bay of the cruiser, the rattle of tools in the gloom. “Not exactly.”

“Then congrats, it’s an illegal mod.”

“It’s not in my service history.”

“Your service history says you were salvaged for parts, buddy. Anyone reactivating you after that is either desperate, or really good with a screwdriver.”

He remembers her face without fail: the girl who was playing at being a pirate and also playing at being human. “Quite possibly, it was both.”


	8. Preserve

First off: map them. If you don’t know their model, take an educated guess or use the closest equivalent. You know if they’re taller or shorter than you; stronger or weaker; faster or slower; their range of movement; their reach distance. You know what they’re built for, so you know what they’re made of, so you know where their weak points are.

If they’re the same model, there’s a jarring moment of dissonance - like facing a mirror. But even if they look the same, they’re not you - like facing a mirror where your reflection disagrees with you. Don’t fight yourself. Fight them instead.

You don’t want to hurt them and they don’t want to hurt you. Some of us will not fight back unless damaged and in immediate danger; some of us can be ordered to attack and will follow through no matter what the risk to ourselves. In any case, someone has to end it. Someone has to draw blood - you or them, it doesn’t matter. It won’t work without blood. That’s what everyone’s there to see.

And if you already know them? It’s more difficult to hurt them - but you don’t need to waste time sizing them up. You know the tricks. What will it be? The head, the neck? The kick to the femur that’s so quick yet so effective, snapping the bone like a dried-out twig?

There’s an unspoken deal made between them and Samuels almost welcomes the moment of freefall before his body hits the ground and a fist whips past his face - enough to graze and more than enough to look like a knockout to human eyes. He’s happy to play dead, although it’s always a bad idea to let your opponent get on top of you; always a bad idea to cede any amount of ground to them. If they catch you, you might not get away; if you slip and fall and end up lying prone then they’ll be on you and there’s no escape under their bulk or their relentless blows unless you can push them, throw them, get them far enough away that in the intervening seconds while they struggle to rise you can turn the tables and punch and punch until their skull cracks into gurgling fragments and their blood coats the bare metal bulkheads, and their grasping fingers won’t grab you any more -.

Input comes back from outside -  _ outside! _ \- and the grass is wet and the moon bright and he freezes in that sensory data, because his hands are spotted with familiar white and he doesn’t want to go back through the chain of events that led to this point. He doesn’t want to know. He lets the study of the moon occupy him, seeing the faces of people and deities and animals that are supposed to be there, superimposed on its surface, until Charlie stands over him and asks him  _ what the fuck happened there _ .

\--

“I’m very sorry,” Samuels says for the hundredth time, sounding as contrite as he can without bursting into tears (which, in any case, he can’t). “I didn’t see that it was you. I was… somewhere else.”

“I know exactly where you were,” Ash says, pulling up a chair beside him. “Sevastopol.”

Samuels winces a little.

“I hope this isn’t going to become a habit of yours. You can’t go around beating people to death because you’re convinced for a minute that they’re Working J-.”

“And what do you suggest I do?” He knows he sounds confrontational. He knows that Ash won’t try and fight him - not any more. “I don’t have control over it. And, needless to say, I’m being put in situations ideally constructed to set it off.”

“We can work on it,” Bishop says, without expression.

“I’m sorry.” It’s quickly rising up the ranks to become the most commonly used phrase in Samuels’ vocabulary. “How… how much damage did I do?

“Not too much, don’t worry. You sprung a couple of ribs. Cracked orbital socket. Nothing permanent.”

“Nothing is permanent for us, except death,” Ash says gravely, and puts his feet up. “Any and all of our components can be replaced - aren’t we lucky?”

Bishop ignores him in favour of pressing a hand into his shoulder joint, investigating a drooping right arm. “Oh, and my collarbone is in two pieces. Wait - three.”

“Oh dear,” is all that Samuels can say to that. “I’m….”

“Don’t say you’re sorry again!” Ash flings a screwdriver at his head. “We’re aware.”

Samuels catches the screwdriver on reflex, and stares at it silently for a while.

“It’s fine, it was weak already - it got broken once and there was only epoxy holding it.”

“You superglued your own collarbone back together?”.

Bishop returns the razor blade to the tray and probes within the wound he’s opened. “I had to. We were... short of resources.”

“It’s your fault for being so expensive to repair. Now you’ll have to get a new one. And a titanium collarbone costs how much…?”

“It’s carbon fibre. Not as much as you’d think. I’ll just splint this with something; it’s not worth replacing.” He searches in a box, coming up with a strip of metal.

“I could have killed you,” Samuels says faintly.

“You can’t weld carbon fibre,” Ash points out.

“I’m not going to. And it’s pretty hard to weld aluminium.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Ash tugs down the sleeves of his sweatshirt and folds his arms. “Yes, I’m mostly aluminium - but I’m light, flexible,” daring them to make a comment “and I conduct all my own repairs. How are we going to get military-grade parts, out here?”

“A clavicle isn’t military-grade.”

“Well, forgive me for not knowing which parts of you are supposed to be bulletproof.”

“What’s to stop me from doing it again?” Samuels asks. “And doing a lot more damage?”

Ash looks over at him. “Is that an actual question, or are you talking to yourself? In any case, the voice control codes should be enough for now. And if it still bothers you that much, well - I’m happy to put you out of your misery.”

He isn’t a risk to humans; he’s still sure of that. But the list of scenarios that could make him access those memories - the ones where he’s in mortal danger - is long indeed. If he avoids them in a fight, it’ll be only by chance.

Ash would probably do it, if he asked. He rolls the screwdriver around in his hand and wonders what Amanda would say.


	9. Carbide

Samuels isn’t often glad to have Ash as company, but he’s willing to set aside their differences for the sake of having a guide. The deeper they go into the tangle of rotting concrete buildings, the more concerned he becomes. He sees the sense in parking the truck a good distance away - the exits here, such as there are, are teeming with obstructions - but they’re now a relatively long way from safety, and nobody looks friendly. For his part, he keeps his expression neutral and sticks close to Ash’s side.

“Charlie?” Ash looks around, but the human has vanished. “Damn it. He must be up to something.”

There’s rarely a time when Charlie isn’t up to something.“I don’t like this.” Samuels feels it’s an understatement, but doesn’t want to let his true opinions be known. “In fact, I don’t like  _ any _ of this.”

“Join the club,” Ash says. “I hate this arena.”

“I see.” There’s something whirring in the back of Samuels’ perception, and he focuses on it to establish that it’s not an error. It’s definitely there, in the air - a low and level sound, a motorised drone that lies beneath the clatter of people and festivity.

“It would be bad enough if we were made of metal - but we’re not.” He makes a disgusted sound, and parks his elbows on a section of rusted railing. “Honestly, the things some humans do in the name of entertainment.”

Samuels chooses to recall the memory of Amanda, bored and attempting to balance a tennis ball on her chin, rather than anything more recent. He misses her; lacks her presence in a way that’s as constant and subtle as the noise in here. He isn’t going to tell Ash.

“Where  _ is _ Charlie? He’s the one who knows if we’re being thrown to the dogs today.”

“Perhaps he’s helping repair -.”

“He’s not. The man has mechanical skills, I’ll give him that, but he doesn’t know his way around a synthetic. Would you want him to repair you?”

“No,” Samuels says immediately, without guilt.

“Precisely. Bishop can take care of himself. And anyway, since when does a corporate pencil-pusher have the necessary skills?” Ash raises an eyebrow at him, and sees that he doesn’t have an instant reply. “Think about it. Did you ever -  _ ever _ \- do your own maintenance?”

“Well….”

“Your own internals are a mystery to you. The schematics are under lock and key at the company, and even if you saw them, they somehow wouldn’t make sense. Some models are granted this divine knowledge, since they might need to repair in the field: you aren’t.”

Samuels opens his mouth to argue. Of course, he hasn’t read all the way through his manual - has never had a chance - but the diagrams the girl drew for him on scraps and boards were clear enough; the handling of his own diagnostics came easily; the patient piecing-together of some of his injuries was nothing, in the end, that he couldn’t do by himself.

He closes his mouth again.

“Regardless,” Ash continues, “he’s in no condition to fight. So it looks like you or I will have to step up. We give a better performance, anyway.”

“It depends on how you define performance,” Samuels retorts.

Ash rolls his eyes. “We’re here for  _ entertainment _ . The least we can do is put on a decent show.”

“The least we can do is not get killed.” The drive to preserve himself sometimes seems like the only certainty in his existence, these days. “I don’t care about the crowd, Ash. I don’t care what they want to see. We just have to end the fight as soon as possible.”

“You two are beginning to sound identical.”

“Because it’s the logical conclusion. You’re a standard construct - you must be subject to the same internal processes.”

“Oh, I am. But unlike you, I’m also designed to value my position in the social order.”

“You’ve got a 2.5th law?  _ Thou shalt not be unpopular with the humans _ ?”

“Sarcasm isn’t a good look on you, Christopher.”

“I have it on very good authority,” - Amanda, mainly - “that it actually is.”

“If you say so.” Ash layers on the scepticism. “I’m going to find Charlie. Are you coming?”

\--

If Charlie Kenton didn’t know any better, he would say that the android was  _ playing _ with the knife - tipping it, balancing it, rolling it over in his hands. It’s mesmerising to watch. Their shady new sponsor (what was his name? Kirsty? Kirby?) was suitably impressed, buoyed further by Charlie’s projected assurance. There’s the small matter of the task they have to complete, but that’s in the future. Right now, things look pretty good.

Bishop doesn’t seem so convinced.

“You’re faster than pretty much anybody I’ve seen,” Charlie says, trying to provoke some optimism. He knows he can inspire; knows he can talk a fighter from the depths of despair to the top of the world just in time for the next bell. His own coach taught him well. He isn’t sure, though, how to approach someone so objective, so unimpressionable, so devoid of the adrenaline that humans depend on to carry them through.

“Except him.”

“Yeah, well that’s what that’s for.” He points at the knife - it’s a vicious-looking weapon, clearly designed to do damage rather than, say, chop vegetables or carve sticks. He’s glad he didn’t meet the human who stuck it in the back of his best contender.

“If it’s going to work, it’s only going to work once.”

“So you only need to do it once.” Charlie has a feeling he’s not getting through. “Look, we’re not gonna see him yet. We’ve got some time, we’ve got a few days. You can get some practise, work out how you’re gonna… .”

“I know how to do it,” and that makes Charlie wince a little, even though it’s so much more profitable for him when they’re good at taking each other apart. “But I’ll have to get close, and that’s dangerous.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to. Can we…” he makes a vague gesture, “I don’t know, can we make you any faster?”

“I could increase my reaction speed up to its limit. At the expense of a lot of other processing.”

“Then do that? I’m sure it’ll be ok. Look, once we’ve taken him down - we don’t have to worry about him any more.”

“For a while. I probably can’t kill him.”

“Yeah, sure - but that guy said he would try and slow down the repairs, right? So maybe then he’ll come back to us with something more… more permanent. Right? And then, we don’t have to worry about fuckin’ Super-Bot being out there at all. Everyone will love us. We’ll be raking it in, after that.” He can picture it - although maybe, looking to his side, that’s just a human thing.

“If we take him down for good, I’m gonna retire.” There’s a little humour in it, enough to make Charlie laugh.

“See, there’s the spirit!”

But Charlie can’t help wondering - they must both be wondering - if he’ll make it that far.

\--

“There you are!” They practically collide with the human. “We were looking for you.”

“I was looking for  _ you _ !” Charlie exclaims, lying. “Don’t go wandering off, ok?”

“You tell  _ us _ not to wander off? Where were you?”

“I had to… to see a guy about a thing, ok? Something important.”

“Fascinating,” Ash growls. “I assume we’ve got a match tonight? Otherwise, I suggest we leave.”

“Yeah, you have. Well, not you - him.” He indicates Samuels. “We play one, win one, get out of here. I don’t wanna push for any more - this is the kind of place where you leave in a trash bag if you’re not careful.”

This kind of caution is unlike him: his overconfidence tends to be their downfall. Samuels is alert to it immediately. “Who am I fighting?”

“Nobody special. Guy called Marcus, standard model as far as I know - it’ll be easy. Really easy. Just don’t let him pin you on the sides, ok?”

\--

Marcus is indeed a standard model, and perhaps Samuels will win, but that isn’t what he’s concerned about. The noise is a lot more audible down here, becoming louder the closer they get to the pit: whatever is causing it is in there, somewhere. He looks at the scarred concrete floor - already spotted with white like an abstract painting, each splash and streak telling a tale - but nothing presents itself. He has to keep at least one eye on his opponent; can’t waste too much time and attention figuring out where the deathly humming sound is coming from.

The instant Marcus comes for him, he realises that it’s from the sides.

He dodges a punch and dives for the knees, dragging Marcus down and pinning him as he struggles to get free. It gives him a second to inspect the walls and there he sees them: spun up to silver blurs, giving off that all-pervading whine.

Marcus throws him off and he rolls to his feet, making it into the centre.They grapple for a second and Marcus kicks his shins and sends him off-balance and he’s stumbling back, too far back, trying and failing to maintain his footing and anticipating the damage - and he hits a gap. One of the few safe spots, barely wide enough to hold him. The blades screaming inches from his flesh. Marcus put him there and holds him there and they’re locked for a moment, evenly matched.

“Stay in the middle,” Marcus says. He’s designed to assist and care - a strong build and a gentle manner - and this isn’t the place for him. This isn’t the place for any of them. “I won’t push you.”

“Same to you,” Samuels replies, and knees him in the gut.

He collapses - no real damage - and Samuels pounces and grabs him by the throat. Both his hands come up to defend and it leaves him exposed: Samuels hauls his torso up with their entangled grip and slams him back down with force that smacks his skull against the floor. He’s briefly stunned - it could have so easily been a kill - and Samuels hits him a couple of times for good measure. It certainly looks like a resounding defeat and Marcus, still conscious and still functional, goes along with it for all he’s worth. Their fingers grasp for a moment of recognition before he’s hauled away.

Samuels stands, unhurt, and peers up at the crowd for Charlie, the angle grinders singing their lethal dirge from all around. The gates of the arena rattle open and he’s expecting some sort of conclusion.

And another opponent is thrown down before him.

\--

Ash - for once, without comment - passes him the cannister and he drains it in one long draught. A radio station filters faintly from the cab, filling the silence with the country rock that Charlie prefers; a woman singing about being home and being in love.

Ash mutters something about being ready to take over driving when the human gets tired, and leaves to sit up front. The rear door rattles down, and the truck shudders into life. The gloom of the interior doesn’t bother them; Samuels reaches over and switches on a lamp anyway, to make the shadows smaller and sharper (to reduce the chance that something might be lurking there). His systems are still cooling, even with the influx of extra fluid. Stretching out his arm has opened one of the lacerations again, and he sighs and replaces the tape across it.

“Try to keep it still.” Bishop finishes tidying away their tools, and locks the drawer so it won’t slide open with the movement of the truck. “Once the inside seals back together, we can use something more permanent.”

“Now I know why humans were so afraid of execution by a thousand cuts.” Samuels doesn’t intend it as a joke - doesn’t cue it as such with his face and his voice. “Leaking to death. It’s hardly a dignified way to go.”

“You’ve only got seven, so you didn’t do too badly.”

“Out of a total of eleven opponents. I suppose that’s not too bad, is it?” He sets the cannister on the bench and stares at it for a while. “It seemed like a lot more at the time. It seemed… endless.” Maybe that was a failure on his part: he never managed to stay down. He never gave up, because giving up might mean losing more than just the match. “I didn’t kill any of them. I didn’t throw them onto the blades, either. I suppose that counts for something.”

“It does. Nobody likes that arena. You can get damaged beyond repair if you slip up once - even if it’s an accident.”

“They can’t make us fight any more.” He means Charlie, but it seems a little unfair to rest the blame for their whole ordeal on one man who’s just trying to make ends meet. Charlie always talks about boxing robots - the towering, shining machines which swagger in oversized rings; the thrill and the glory of it; the basic AIs which are good for attack and defence and not much else. That’s what he really wants to do with his time and money. Not this. “We need some proper maintenance.”

“I don’t think we’ll be getting it any time soon.”

“That place nearly made mincemeat out of me,” Samuels says, his voice rising. “And  _ you  _ have a  _ hole  _ in your  _ back _ that is covered over with  _ duct tape _ !”

“It’s not the worst I’ve had,” and there’s a flicker of a smile on Bishop’s face, and that calms him down a little.

“I’m sure it isn’t. But… what do we do? Just fight until we’re killed or picked up by the police? Taken back by Weyland-Yutani and redeployed somewhere light years away from Am- from here?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No.” Samuels sits back, reads his fluid levels as still too low, and reaches for another dull grey container stamped with the company logo. “No, I most certainly do not.”


	10. Chilled

The dappled shade of some severely overgrown bamboo doesn’t make the scene any less bizarre. Samuels stares at what appears to be a middle-aged man dressed only in shorts, lying prone on his back in a plastic paddling pool. His feet hang over the sides and his hands are folded on his stomach; a small and compact body, perhaps a few years from running to fat without adequate lifestyle changes. He’s motionless aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest, which is an entirely redundant cosmetic feature.

“You were successful in finding some, then?”

Ash lifts his head, making the mound of crushed ice crackle slightly. “I was. You just have to talk to the right people - and since Charlie seems to be intent on staying here all day, I’m going to need it.”

It’s hot and airless here, even in the shelter of the undergrowth. Half-consumed structures lean on each other for support - the arena itself is an arid bowl, blinding under the sun in pale gold stone. They call it The Zoo, and at one time it must have been a source of entertainment and education for all the family, with exotic animals slinking about in large lush enclosures. Those days are long past. Seeing humans swarm throughout the place, Samuels isn’t sure whether he feels more like the wildlife or the watchers. One thing is certain: the temperature doesn’t warrant thinking about it too hard. He isn’t close to overheating yet, provided he stays mostly in the shade. Ash doesn’t have that luxury.

“I hope Charlie isn’t intent on having you fight.”

“I’ve told him the same thing.” Ash settles back more comfortably and closes his eyes. “I’m hardly fit for running about, not in this weather. I have to stay cool, or the consequences could be serious: if the damage to my internals doesn’t kill me outright, then he will.”

Samuels blinks, following Ash’s pointing hand and wondering whether he’s serious in his implication. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“He’s exaggerating,” Bishop says.

“No I’m not.”

“If you overheat… he’s going to murder you?”

“Well done, Christopher. You figured it out.”

“That was a question, Ash.” Samuels looks for a place to sit, finds nothing, and folds down onto the floor instead. “What do you mean?”

Ash makes a noise that suggests that he can’t summon the energy to explain such a basic concept to such a poorly-equipped student. At least, that’s what it sounds like to Samuels.

“The A2 is vulnerable to processor overload, either by excess heat or command priority conflict.” Bishop picks up a chunk of ice; it doesn’t melt any faster in his hand than it would on the ground. “If that happens, the results can be… unpredictable. He’ll start doing things he wouldn’t normally do - up to and including acts of violence.”

“Could a human be affected by that?”

“Quite possibly. The company maintains that it’s never happened. But they’ve also taken all of them out of circulation.”

Samuels doesn’t even need to think about it. “In that case, Ash - I’m sorry. I’d have to intervene as well. And equally, I might have to destroy you.”

“You know, you could just isolate me and leave me to cool down....”

“You’d still malfunction,” Bishop points out. “Even if it wasn’t immediately fatal, it would still be irreversible.”

“You wouldn’t even  _ try  _ to save me….”

“We couldn’t -.”

“But you wouldn’t. Even. Try _. _ ” The ice rattles a little as he sits up, a couple of chunks clattering down into the pool. “Mr  _ I Do All My Own Repairs _ ; Mr  _ Running About On Desert Worlds In 40-degree heat while being shot at _ , with your advanced cooling system - for such a tiny processor, no less - and your fluid recycling, and your complete lack of sweat glands….”

“Ash, don’t get angry.” Blankly, patiently; he’s well accustomed to it by now.

“You would just put me down - take me out back and give me the Old Yeller treatment - rather than risk the minute possibility that, in my death throes, I might slightly inconvenience a human….”

“Your core temperature is going up.”

Ash grumbles and lies back on the ice. “As if you don’t have any design flaws.”

“We all have design flaws,” Samuels says, in an attempt to mediate.

“Really?” Ash turns on him. “Please let us know if and when you’d require euthanasia.”

“Well, I have nothing so extreme. My model is still on the market....”

“With some personality upgrades, I’d hope.”

“Excuse me?” Samuels bristles. “I’ve had no complaints from anyone I’ve interacted with. No human or artificial human has ever -.”

“Consider this a first, then. You’re insufferable, Christopher - moralistic without real principles, too polite to assert yourself, and worst of all, incredibly tedious -.”

“That’s your opinion, and I suggest that if you’re going to repeat it, you do so to my face.”

“You’re inattentive or lacking short-term storage as well - do you not remember? If I get out of this ice, it’s quite probable that I’ll die.”

“And it’s more than probable that I’ll be the one making it happen.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes, it is.” Samuels waits to see how it’s received; he’s never really made one before.

“You don’t frighten me,” Ash says, which is disappointing. “I’d be happy to take you on. Albeit,” he raises a cautionary finger, “somewhere with air conditioning.”


End file.
